


Soulsearching

by ninayoshi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Bullying, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Gen, Growing Up, Introspection, Intrusive Thoughts, M/M, Memory Palace, POV First Person, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-11
Updated: 2019-06-11
Packaged: 2020-04-24 18:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninayoshi/pseuds/ninayoshi
Summary: A collection of Will’s fondest memories, in the forms of old photographs and testimonials.——I’ve been thinking about about Will :)Also he’s an edgy Fuck





	Soulsearching

**Author's Note:**

> I pick up the scrapbook, stashed away in the cupboard, long forgotten. Was meant to be forgotten.  
> I found it, again. Here, on its cover, is written “Will Graham”.  
> And a smaller note, directly below the golden engraved letters, wrote:  
> “In case you forget yourself.”

The scrapbook’s cover was dusty, almost faded from it’s original leather brown to something nearly grey. It has that usual hefty weight of a hardcover book laden with photographs. Of memories shelved away for later perusal. It was perhaps habit, from the need of picking up scraps of memories from places I used to visit with Pa. A fishing hook, an annoying singing wall decor, a candy wrapper.

Something to hold on. To know I had once existed there.

It would be rather amusing if I found those within. I don’t quite remember what fragments of my past I held dearly. Out of sheer luck I suppose, it is time to revisit me.

First page was a yellowed paper, ink nearly faded. It was a fifth grade report card. Most of the writing had aged with time. So did whatever memory I’ve had of this time. There wasn’t permanence in whichever place Pa and I had decided to dock. A few months to a year, perhaps. Nothing worth remembering.

Nothing worth holding onto.

There was a written sentence that is far more legible though.

” _Will Graham exhibits remarkable curiosity despite his anti-social tendencies and refusal to participate in activities. He prefers to do things by himself, but has been independent enough to keep up with the work that is given out to him._ ”

Thanks, whoever you are. 

“ _However, the recent string of violence shown towards his fellow students, seemingly at random, marks a very worrying indication of bad socialisation since young. I would hope Mr Graham could meet me to discuss how we can remedy this._ ”

My finger twitched at the memory that flooded so quick into my mind palace. I found myself back in that fifth grade, looking at blank faces. Blank, but still cruel. I see their mocking smiles, their pointed fingers, as they run around me, laughing. Mocking. 

A freak.

A boy no one wanted.

Where did Mommy go? No one loves him.

The pencil in my hand screams for blood. For a kid that age, I had learnt that it is very easy to get something sharp into something soft very quickly.

So I did. Watch one of the faceless things cry as the pencil found its mark in their shoulder.

Except that wasn’t a memory. Nothing like that happened. No blood, no pencil lodged in shoulders. No silencing of lambs.

The memory was just me throwing myself at someone who is a few inches taller, only to get mobbed by the cruel children. A pitiful thing. One learns about cruelty at a young age. Innocence stems from ignorance. Cruelty stems from deliberate delight of ruining that innocence.

Moving on.

Second page is filled with pictures of various graduations. All from different schools. All with the same tired look I wear.

What if I had grinned? Snarl, bare teeth. Watch the person on the other side of the camera flinch. Or perhaps cry? Pity is easier to deal with then the spiteful look people have when they see me.

There was this one year. A student who had been thoroughly annoying. Sat beside me, throwing paper and boogers at my general direction. What did I do? I wanted to cut his fingers with my scissors, telling him that it’s better used as bait than to be attached to his hand. I wanted to watch him cry and beg for mercy. Make him feel powerless where I am powerful. I remember my fingers curling around the blue scissors, it’s edges blunt but useful.

I want pain.

But I had outlived the childish preposition of inflicting bodily harm onto others. His shirt was badly ironed- By himself, no less. His nails untrimmed- had no one told him to cut them? Teeth yellow, I see cavities, his neck unscrubbed. Eyes red rimmed.

”What a pitiful thing. To be unloved.”

That was when I realised my intrusive thoughts could be turned outwards. There is a certain... Glee, to watch people unravel, frayed. Broken.

I’ve learnt that the fear is better than pity or spite. Keeps me on my toes. Keeps them on theirs as well. Survive and thrive.

Moving on.

We do not take a lot of pictures, Pa and I. A lone one of me, age 17-18, holding onto a good-sized bass, with him standing beside me, looking proudly into the camera.

It was his friend who took it, I think. I can’t remember his name. It disappeared along with his body, down into the seas, during an unmemorable day of an unmemorable city. Does he have family? I don’t know. Perhaps they are still looking for traces of him.

I wonder how Pa is doing. I should call him later.

Moving on.

Receipts of motor parts and lures bought over the years. Jesus, our expenditure is huge. 

Well, moving on.

There must have been an insignificant part of my life that has been either too boring to be recorded, or I had gave up on collecting that particular part of my life. The next section was my stint at the New Orleans police force. I had stopped wandering then, taking root in an isolated place. Finding solace in solid ground.

There is a old picture of me, seemingly frustrated as I see something beyond the camera lens. I was moving to somewhere- or from somewhere, as I stepped around the car. Who took this? Doesn’t matter. This was perhaps one of my earlier years at the force. The uniform well ironed, police hat in my arms, gun secured and badge shiny in the sun.

The gun holds an obscene amount of power. In no way shape or form one should brandish it carelessly. Whenever I worked on a case with a partner, I see how at ease they are, watching people, eating take out, talking about their lives. The gun sits heavy in its holster. I see myself pulling it out, shooting them by the side of their head.

It is terrifyingly easy to exert violence. It eats at me away, gnawing at the back of my skull, chewing out my ear. Kill them, just because you can.

Even more so when we bring in the occasional perpetrators. The truly heinous ones. Those who preyed upon drunk women and unknowing children. Those who pretend to love but turn around to torture. I see them, clear as day, behind crocodile tears and nonchalant smiles. It makes it so much harder to not put a bullet through them.

It terrifies me. When I was younger, I didn’t had much to think about. All I learnt was that these thoughts can be diverted to catching and skinning fishes. It was around this time that I learnt dogs are companionable friends who keeps me in check. Dogs have no ulterior motives. They play, they love you, they enjoy your company, misses you when you’re absent, and enjoys routines. Easy to love, easy to deal with. It is far simpler.

A picture of my promotion, where I was grinning from ear to ear. One of the rare times I was truly proud and happy. Being a homicide detective, to turn my sick imagination to other means... It felt liberating. Knowing I can use this for good, and not just some dark fantasies that lurked in my nightmares, threatening to spill. 

This is also where I get to be... Intimate, with the aftermath of crime scenes. I wasn’t a freak anymore. Well, I became a genius freak. Same difference. I excel in my work. Simple as that. At least, that was what I was trying to convince myself. But it was a dark place. One that followed me home, even after my day is done. Followed me into my dreams and decided to make itself known.

Sometimes my shoulder ache from the bullet that scarred my shoulder. I was pursuing a suspect, was too careless. Took a shot. My partner took him down, and asked why didn’t I shoot. To be honest, I did not want to kill. I did not want to know how it feels to actually see a person’s life snuffed out like a flame. I don’t want to feel like as though my first shot won’t be my last.

It was the final straw on the camel’s back. Handed in my badge and gun, wanted a change of pace. Decided to turn to books and research, to channel this chaos within me into something kinder, something better. My gift for extreme empathy, I had decided then, will be used to study murderers. Make them known, so they can’t escape. So I can save lives passively.

Did I do a good job? Who knows.

Moving on.

An obligatory group picture of a bunch of academics at some psychology conference. I was there, hidden behind some figures. There had bene a few notable names in there as well- Ah, there’s Alana. 

The conference was dry. Alana was the life of this “party”. I remember being entirely alone during their intermission, trying my darn best to blend in and not do a forced networking session with anyone. Alana saw my anxiety, and suggested somewhere quieter. Reluctantly I agreed, but it did take me away from potential socialisations. The rest was history.

I wonder how she is right now. 

Moving on.

Various handwritten notes, scribbled through sleepless nights and panic-driven days to complete my master thesis. Good memories. 

Pictures of my award ceremony. Still as awkward.

The memories from here own are far more recent, far more refreshing.

My first book on time of death and insect activity. It was a monumental achievement, but it also caught the eye of Jack Crawford from Quantico. He decided (first of the many decisions he had made on my behalf) that I will find better ways to use my talents with the crime labs. My fate was decided as well. My life, so entwined with death, and the romanticiation of violence through the twisted minds that I do not want to entirely understand, lest I found myself influenced by them.

I tried my best to hide this fact from Jack. I seen his work ethics; although admirable, he is too headstrong and extremely stubborn. No wonder he is the head of the FBI unit. You can’t have someone who isn’t a steadfast mountain of man to lead by example. He is an anchor, an immovable point of reference. And I know were I to utilise my imagination he would love to use it as well.

Until the Cheseapeake Ripper.

It was one of the first scenes that made me change to teaching. I hadn’t had the chance to see the aftermath, though the pictures and what was left of the poor victim was more than enough. An exquisite violence. Trophies for his hardwork. A signature flourish in red, warm blood. Fascinating. Horrendously so.

I want to see it live. I want to know who is it that made an effort to show the world this. Someone who is capable of seeing such macabre art in the prison of flesh and bones. Yet, he was the most elusive one.

The urge to reproduce his art was far too great. I didn’t tell Jack why. I just simply chose to teach.

It is easier to repress your intrusive thoughs when you talk at a wall of people. Removed from the scene, from my imaginations, and speak rehearsed words. Academic language, technocal jargon, no emotional attachment to reality.

It was easy to convince myself of a normal life. Teaching, grading, getting mildly annoyed at stupid questions.

Then the Hobbs family came into my life. Or rather, I theirs.

My scrapbook is left opened on my lap. The rest of the pages are blank. It was at that point in time when I did not want to collect any memories. It had been hell. I did not want to look at it alone. I did not want to soak myself in the darkness that I had so reluctantly crawled out from. I was pushed back into the deep end. Sink or swim.

Until Hannibal Lecter.

My paddle. My rock. My friend.

I closed the scrapbook. The intrusive thoughts had not left me sleepless since him. He made my thoughts clearer, my motivations sharper. In his own twisted way, he had made me realise those thoughts were only intrusive because I did not allow them entrance into the deeper recesses of my mind. Were I to be free of petty morals and knee-jerk reactions to societal norms, I wouldn’t have suffered so greatly.

”You had suffered beautifully.” I reminisce about those words, uttered after our fall. The waves were loud but his voice was clear.

I couldn’t remember where we were. But that was important then. Unimportant now.

I am not afraid anymore. Not of my thoughts, of my potential, of these dark urges I had starved myself since young.

Not when the voice in my head sounds so much like him.

I have found myself.

* * *

 

Will closed the scrapbook, standing over his old home in Wolf Trap. He placed it back where it belonged, at the back of the cupboard, behind old shirts and suits that he had left behind months ago.

He sighs, letting out a breath. He feels a part of himself that has been renewed, through the memory palace that he decorated. Of old memories that were left in dust, only to give them new life. New meaning.

Arms wrappd around his waist, and Will grinned at the familiar warmth and cologne. He leans back, and meets the ready lips of Hannibal Lecter.

”Are you done saying goodbye?”

”Mm.” Will hummed in response. Their fingers intertwined, and they stepped out of the house. Echos of his past now laid to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this all in one sitting, unbetad lolol  
> Let me know if there are some content warnings missing


End file.
